


seneschal

by klismaphilia



Category: Original Work, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brainwashing, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Emotionally Repressed, Gen, Human Experimentation, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mental Instability, Physical Abuse, Psychological Torture, Revenge, Violent Thoughts, agent's been really screwed over what's new
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 23:29:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15035693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klismaphilia/pseuds/klismaphilia
Summary: Watcher X observes him carefully, still seated in the dusty chair that had been long-since abandoned along with the rest of the Quesh facility. “Now you have access. Tell me what you want.”Freedom,the Agent thinks briefly.Exaltation. Separation from what I have been designed for. A being that only I will be in possession of; myself.





	seneschal

**seneschal /** **‘senəSH(ə)l/, n.**

def. (traditional) the steward or major-domo of a medieval great house;  
from medieval Latin seniscalus , derived from a compound of Germanic  
words meaning ‘devoted’ and ‘servant.’

...

 

Soneillon was never meant to be anything more than a perfect servant-- a vassal, first, indentured to the cyborg warlords of Clan Xianrith, then a weapon, hollowed out for precision and made to uphold the interests of the Empire. It was his place, as it had always been, to serve those that were his superiors first and foremost; the concept that had been so fundamental within his upbringing was all but wired into his body.

 

He was less human than even most cyborgs, and his organic half was sickly from the beginning, something weak and unworthy and _revolting_ to those who saw themselves as his betters. Not that he could claim any true opinion over their views of his being; he, after all, had been the same way with aliens for many years. Filled with prejudice he had been predisposed to adapt based on his upbringing. It was, to a certain degree, _ridiculous_ in retrospect for him to have thought of aliens as lesser-- Kaliyo was a testament to that fact, much as he had come to loathe her as a sociopath and an anarchist. Still, she had a certain admirable quality in her-- a freedom that Soneillon had never claimed jealousy for, though his circuits sparked with anger when he so much as thought about it.

 

Despite all the woeful circumstance of her history, Kaliyo had her independence.

 

She did not understand what it was like to serve.

 

She did not understand what it meant to _reprogram_ oneself, ridding their body of organic control, submitting their mind to rigorous conditioning for _years_ in order to become the tool that best fit their superiors.

 

She did not understand _him._

 

Not that understanding amounted to much, with organics. They could never truly be trusted to obey.

 

But then again, even machines were prone to the occasional malfunction. And malfunction was exactly what Soneillon did.

 

* * *

 

They had given him his designation after the Eagle’s uprising began; a new identity outside of the one he had been allowed at his origin, a name to go by in private while his external self continued to adapt. New identities and new backstories, underlaid by the Imperial Intelligence sobriquet _Cipher Nine._

 

Cipher Nine was trained in infiltration, manipulation and assassination, honed into a capable operative with exceptional talent under the watch of Imperial Intelligence. He had no history, no family, no close contacts to be traced back to; spies, after all, were creatures destined for solitude. And he had been alone long enough not to miss the company of others in the first place.

 

But now, looking back on his naming, Cipher Nine wonders if perhaps he was not respectful enough of the significance that his designation carried. To be relegated to a faceless servant without even a proper name was symbolic of his lacking realism and his tendencies toward inadequacy; he was little more than a cog inside a system, working in his own place alongside a number of other cogs to keep the machine functional. Imperial Intelligence had provided him a purpose he would not have realized otherwise; the upholding of a cause greater than any individual or clan alone. The upholding of an _Empire._ Keeper had placed faith in a _seneschal_ to carry out acts of honor that would affect hundreds upon thousands upon _millions_ of sentients. Shouldn’t he have felt more, knowing what purpose his sacrifice to the system would serve? Shouldn’t he have been _proud?_

 

It does not feel the way he supposes it ought to, when he subdues Grey Star and allows Sanju to take on the terrorist leader’s identity. It does not feel the way that Cipher Nine believes it _should_ when he neutralizes the entirety of VerveGen, allowing the Empire to gain the upper hand on the Eagle’s systematic process of treasonous action.

 

Perhaps that is because he was the one to make the killing blow against Gray Star himself, the one to walk away from Balmorra with red soaking his uniform whites, blood clinging to his skin long after he’d first attempted to wash it clean. Perhaps it is because he was the only one to leave the VerveGen meeting room alive, stepping around body after body after body, cold and still and unmoving. Cipher Nine was the one who looked into Aphel Jaarn’s face as he writhed upon the ground, begging to be saved from Watcher X’s interference, the one who said in a stoic tone, “I don’t _want_ to hurt you, but I can’t trust you to speak honestly,” as he gave the order to drill the boy’s mind and short-circuit his interface once the information had been confirmed.

 

Organics looked impossibly _machine_ when they died, so lifeless and still and devoid of even a whir to signify a conscious connection to the vessel of their body. Death is the only thing less human then he, himself, and though he does not feel the way he thinks he _ought_ to, Cipher Nine _does_ feel exactly what he’s been programmed to.

 

He feels _nothing._

 

Emotional response: offline. Hormonal systems: balanced. Neurotransmission: stable. Synapses: functioning within normal parameters.

 

Mission complete.

 

Watcher X escapes the prison and Cipher Nine fails to prevent it. But Watcher X’s containment was not part of the assigned directive; his whereabouts mean little. Cipher Nine remembers looking up at him from upon the ground, considering the sensation of Watcher X’s organic hands on the remains of his human skin; he remembers observing too closely the way that Watcher X spoke with movements of his hands and body even while his facial expression remained indifferent. He too, was machine, but not one working at optimum speed; he had disconnected himself from the system and for that reason he was a danger.

 

Watcher X claims that he will tell Cipher Nine all of the secrets which Imperial Intelligence has kept classified, and despite his better judgment, Cipher Nine believes his words.

 

He wonders if he is already failing the system, collapsing before he is authorized to; it is not something that should be allowed. He is a servant and he follows orders and that _is_ his prerogative.

 

When he sits alone in bed on the Phantom that night, mulling over an endless array of papers and files and mission directives that have been wired to his implant directly from Intelligence, Cipher Nine feels more than nothing, he feels _empty._ Hollowed out entirely, like a flesh-and-metal husk containing no rationality or thought. His fingers brush over paper without feeling, his eyes read words and observe the glint of stars against the pitch of space through the window without ever truly _seeing._

 

Earlier in his mission, when he had gone to search for answers pertaining to cyclone distribution, he had briefly been in contact with a pair of Nautolans; a brother and sister, selling drugs to the planet’s disillusioned and unfortunate. They’d looked at him as if they could see an injury more grievous than just that caused by the injections Watcher X provided him with: _his genes are unraveling, his bones are breaking. Poor, pretty creature, needs fine-tuning._

 

_You feel his health; the pretty man will be lucky to survive another week._

 

There rang a truth somewhere in those words. Cipher Nine had been indisposed, somehow-- his existence was a link that did not seem secure even given his past service and submission. He is more degraded than anyone knows, more than even Watcher Two was capable of sensing.

 

He does not want to be fixed.

 

Soneillon hadn’t wanted to become a machine, either. They had shaved his head and stuck needles under his skin and peeled away the flesh to fit cybernetics into him. They’d cut him up and burned his wounds shut and fused his flesh with the metal, taken off his legs and pulled his organs loose to make sure his body _endured._ He was Xianrith property and always had been, his family allowed survival purely because of their vassal position.

 

He remembers his sister crying when she’d seen what they’d done to him.

 

But the Lord of the House had been happy, and when Soneillon was granted the title of _seneschal,_ her sorrow was all but forgotten. _You ought to be happy,_ she said, _you’ve finally surpassed the rest of us, finally made yourself desirable, even if it was as a test subject. You’re not the weakling you used to be._

 

He thinks it was Mammon’s enmity that finally killed his humanity, even more than his augmentations. When she’d been married off to that Imperial, Soneillon hadn’t even the heart to tell her goodbye; wouldn’t have mattered if he did, regardless. _Lady Mammon Tarkin, formerly Vassal of Clan Xianrith, devoted wife of the Grand Admiral, till death do them part,_ and the last words she’d left him with were ones of loathing. _Keep participating in their experiments and perhaps you’ll finally rid_ _yourself of your weakness, brother. Serve, for the glory of the Empire._

 

Pain was a welcome friend within the chaotic expanse of the galaxy, one with whom Cipher Nine has always been acquainted.

 

He wonders if Watcher X is happy, or if he, too, is drifting silently in an abyss of vacancy.

 

* * *

 

When he learns that Darth Jadus is the Eagle’s benefactor and has been since the very beginning, Soneillon does not understand.

 

Cipher Nine reasons that he does not _need_ to understand. Jadus is an enemy.

 

* * *

 

Keeper talks to him after Jadus is taken into custody by the Dark Council; her eyes are disturbingly secretive in the way they seem to look directly into the Agent’s wiring, as if sensing the error in his attunement.

 

Cipher Nine does not express his surprise at Watcher Two’s redesignation; Keeper suits her, both in terms of tactic and intelligence, and she is professional as ever when they speak, though she watches him long after the conclusion of their exchange with an unspoken question in her gaze.

 

He considers that she was a better Watcher for her stoicism, much as he is a better Cipher for his indifference.

 

He recollects the moment when she’d asked him on the bridge of Jadus’ dreadnought, in a muted tone, if he was _alright._

 

Cipher Nine does not believe anyone has asked him that question before.

 

But why would it matter whether or not he was _alright?_ His programming dictates that he remains competent and cognizant to the best of his system’s ability. He is a servant of the Empire, and he is made to serve, not to _feel._ Following orders and commands allows him control and structure and _distance,_ and it is not so different from Vector’s diplomacy, nor from Kaliyo’s tendency toward recklessness and abandonment. Shouldn’t he prioritize the mission objective over his own uncivilized, disorganized _thoughts?_

 

He did not bat an eye when he traded the entirety of House Cortess to the Killik colony, the words _assimilation_ and _devour_ both vague and removed from his sense of being. Vector expressed gratitude for his commitment to the Hive and still Cipher Nine did not comprehend what exactly it was that his companion had felt appreciative of. He did not have a use for Cortess past the scope of his mission, and their solidarity or dispersion meant nothing to Intelligence. Perhaps the Killiks would make useful allies to the Empire, but even that decision was not his to make.

 

He tells Vector that he was pleased to be of service and appreciated the Hive’s assistance for what it had been; it is neither a truth nor a lie. The words meant nothing in his mouth.

 

In the background, Keeper begins to explain the detailing of his next assignment;

 

“I want you to make contact with the SIS and offer to be their spy inside the Empire.”

 

He clasps his hands in front of his body, nods in understanding.

 

“I’ve been a pirate and a terrorist. I can be a traitor too.”

 

“This is a long term, deep undercover mission. Your objective is to earn their confidence, learn their plan and, when the time comes, eliminate Ardun Kothe himself.”

 

“Consider it done.”

 

He does not think to listen to the warning Keeper provides about the psychological consequences of the work, does not see a need to focus on an _emotional tax_ that will never come to fruition. It isn’t until he meets Kothe himself that Cipher Nine almost wishes he had.

 

* * *

 

There was a static in his head that grew like a tumor, pulsating and surging with pain enough to overload his receptors; it felt as if somebody were rifling their way through his head, rummaging about with demanding and avaricious fingers, plucking out whatever they wanted and pushing new commands into the open gaps until Soneillon had no choice but to obey if he wanted the pain to terminate.

 

The last thing his conscious mind had been able to fully process was standing before Ardun Kothe as the SIS leader raised a hand and spoke with certainty to every atom of his being-- after that, he remembers static. Growing and spiraling through his vessel, out of control as he was _forced_ to obey the commands that had been stuck in his brain.

 

_Keyword: onomatophobia._

 

_onomatophobiaonomatophobia_

_o n o m a t o p h o b i a_

 

It _hurt._

 

They’ve told him to respond to a situation on Taris and, though he would not have forsaken orders to begin with, Cipher Nine has no choice to disobey. He is hearing things, feeling things that should be impossible-- Watcher X was there, as he always seems to be, walking around his wounded body as he lay prone and subject to the commands he was to be given. Voices rang in his head, clawing at the inside of his organic skull just as the rakghouls had torn at his cybernetic arms and flayed the false flesh which covered his wrists.

 

He did not care to undertake the SIS' mission, but he was given no choice. He has never been given a choice, either as seneschal or as Cipher Nine. There were always superiors, always  _organics, humans,_ looking down on him, giving him commands, programming him to obey regardless of his own thoughts or autonomy. Kothe is no different, and yet  _everything_ is different; now, he is unmistakeably  _inhuman,_ entirely empty, a walking shell of an agent that others used to do their dirty work.

 

He saves Chance of his own volition. The boy is injured. He might have died. Cipher Nine did not have to save him. He chooses to.

 

He should have let him die, but some part of his  _human_ sentimentality must remain ingrained in him, between wires and circuits and cybernetic plating for him to do such a thing. It is weakness, but it is  _his,_ and that alone is something he can take pride in. He has his orders. He has a mission.

 

He is not broken yet.

 

* * *

  
_Brainwashed. Obedient. Servant._

 

The words circle about the wiring of his conscience, hissing and spitting and crackling like the blade of a drawn saber, cutting into Cipher Nine’s circuits and reconfiguring them into something wholly catatonic, something… _subservient._

 

He is a slave to Kothe, to the SIS, to Intelligence first and foremost. Has he always been a slave? Was it coded into him or simply a part of his genetic inheritance?

 

… _how long has his mind been programmed?_

 

He shudders and the voices continue to spit at him, vitriol and pity and contempt all rolled into one.

 

_Poor, pretty creature…_

 

_… pathetic as they come…_

 

_… useless at his core, an unworthy Cipher…_

 

_… meant to be reprogrammed, left obedient for those of higher status…_

 

_… a disgraceful cyborg, with flawed circuitry…_

 

_… the burden on the name of our Clan, the scourge of all the vassal houses…_

 

_… thought you could save yourself by becoming an Imperial, but never had the drive to function at such a heightened state…_

 

Cipher Nine _screams._

 

He slams his head into the wall, once twice thrice, metal pushing into flesh, synthetic nerves crying out, cybernetics mangling across his form; his legs are kicking, arms locked about his own head, and his metal knee jams inward with a disconcerting _zap!,_ his fingers loosening in their metal sockets one after another, _pop pop pop,_ and it's only what he deserves-- only what he _needs,_ to break. He is nothing and he will always be nothing, he is a mechanical husk devoid of sentience, and he _will not break,_ he _r e f u s e s!_ Too long has he remained unshakeable, ever since Lord Phaedra broke the bones inside his arms and detached them while he was floating in an abyss of drugged-out bliss, ever since they'd taken a knife to his gut and opened him up and pinned the flesh back as they pulled out his organs, using the bloody _Force_ to stabilize his vitality. Cipher Nine had _lost_ his humanity, he didn't _need_ it, couldn't _retain_ it, and yet he's never felt more alive than he does now.

 

He is on the floor of the fresher, curled into a tightly wound ball of cybernetic and flesh just inside the sonic shower. His hands are around his knees and there is a mess of _blood_ washing into the drain, he must have gored himself right up and isn't it _funny_ that he bleeds, maybe he's human after all…

 

Doctor Lokin is at his side with a medpac and a set of stims that he presses into Cipher Nine’s neck and thigh, two of the few remaining areas of flesh and bone that his body has retained; his legs shake, the flesh foot scrabbling for a hold against the slickness of the ground, and when someone wraps their arms around him and pulls him back to his feet-- _Vector, Vector, I'm sorry you had to clean up my mess, I know you loathe the sight of unnecessary violence --_ he _cries._

 

“It's alright, Agent--”

 

“-- get him to lie down so we can stabilize-”

 

“---- you can't die on me _yet,_ Agent, not like this-”

 

“-- I'm going to put you to sleep, Cipher, but you have to keep still--”

 

His hands keep wandering to the fussing limbs and the blurred figures standing over his bed. He's reaching for them without a reason, without a cause, and _stars above,_ he's never seen anything so real as the sight of the red that's staining the medbay cot under him, the remaining flesh on his ribcage. It's _beautiful._

 

But with or without the color, he's a mere servant, an experiment, a _test subject,_ and they're in his mind, they're _everywhere._ Watcher X is leaning over him and Ardun Kothe keeps snapping out _‘keyword: onomatophobia’_ and Hunter is _cackling_ in the foreground of it all, and he's _falling,_ down and down and down into the abyss…

 

Until his head hits the bottom and there is only darkness.

 

* * *

 

“They're using you. Not to be reasoned with, not to be trusted. Meant to cause you greater pain. Brainwashing is an Imperial science. Master, my mind is gone. Forgive my errors, kin. I have been forsaken. I have…”

 

His breath halts, the incohesive ramblings continuing to spill out from between his fleshy lips, bitten almost raw with frustration. The Cipher’s fingers drew patterns over the lines of his nude thighs, where cybernetics met organic flesh, the texture of his skin unfamiliar and riveting. What had it been like to exist as a human? What would it be like to feel free?

 

“They took far more from the rest of us…”

 

Watchers. Minders. Ciphers. Fixers.

 

Strategic Information Service. Imperial Intelligence.

 

Cyborgs. Droids.

 

Slaves. Vassals.

 

What was he really? How long had the Empire expected him to survive, trapped in a hollow, metal body, with a malfunctioning mind that his enhancements were incapable of repairing? He was not a droid. He was not a _slave._

 

He rescued Chance of his own volition and yet Kothe continues to inflict an improper programming on him until he can stomach it no more. He does not respond to his own thoughts, does not perpetrate his own machinations. He is under their thumb.

 

(Cipher Nine remembers a mission once, on Dromund Kaas, before he'd been christened as a Cipher at all, where a Captain had lost her men in battle, only to find their bodies decimated and their minds programmed into the forms of war droids. She had been appropriate horrified, he thinks, though Soneillon cannot remember feeling anything at the time, certainly cannot remember sympathizing with their loss of autonomy. He was not meant to sympathize. Had not been _programmed_ for it.)

 

(It is only now that he finds himself questioning _what_ he was programmed for at all.)

 

* * *

 

When the SIS leaves him on Quesh with a command to return to Imperial Intelligence and _bide his time,_ Cipher Nine breaks.

 

His mind is filled with static, thoughts circling like shyracks ready to pry away the remaining fragments of his identity and spit them out into the void of space once and for all. Watcher X is whispering in his ear; Watcher X is his only constant. Has been for months. Longer, perhaps. Truth be told, Cipher Nine cannot remember exactly how long he has been working on this mission; how long it has been since eradication day.

 

“You said the serum hadn’t finished reprogramming me. What am I risking?”  
  
“Permanent vegetative state. But it’s not like we have much choice.”

 

 _No. We don’t._ Soneillon’s cybernetic joints creak as they tense, his metal fingers curling into metal palms of a different material. He says nothing. His existence at this point is worthless. Pitiful. No doubt he’s been halfway to becoming braindead since Lord Phaedra had first chosen him as her seneschal. Any further damage would simply be relief; fried circuits, fried brain cords. His system is going haywire. His vitals are already dead.

 

“Thesh protocol, phase one. New keyword: iconoclasm.”

 

“Keyword accepted. Thesh protocol engaged.”

 

Watcher X observes him carefully, still seated in the dusty chair that had been long-since abandoned along with the rest of the Quesh facility. “Now you have access. Tell me what you want.”

 

 _Freedom,_ the Agent thinks, briefly. _Exaltation. Separation from what I have been designed for. A being that only I will be in possession of; myself. I…_

 

_Feel. I feel. Loathing… revulsion… confusion… paranoia. Danger, everywhere, from everyone and everything. Organics cannot be trusted. They exist to take and manipulate and destroy what is not theirs to destroy. To think I had been one of them-- that I could have been one of them… it gives me a sensation… like bullets stuck in a metal breastplate, or a throat being compressed by external forces. Gears grinding, wires tangled together. Disorderly. Improper. Aggravating._

 

“Nothing is going to stop me from getting revenge,” Soneillon murmurs, softly.

 

“Embed assassination commands. Keyword activate from user only. Accept no outside orders.”

 

“Assassination commands embedded. Accepting no further orders.”

The static begins to fade. For years it has remained the only thing of precedence in his mind; now Soneillon cannot sense anything of his keepers, his masters, his… makers.

 

 _Inferior,_ his mind supplements. _Even they are unaware of the extent of their actions, of how much despair they have caused. They will never be aware, not until I alone have decided it, not until I have determined what events must pass._

 

“You’re free now. It’s time for me to go.”

 

_free free free free free free free_

_…_

 

_aware._

 

_I’m going to end their reign of control. No more masters. No more games. Only awareness; a deception of my own._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter will be where the real fun happens.


End file.
